


black & white

by daddyanchen (sichenqie), orphan_account



Category: NINE PERCENT (Band), 偶像练习生 | Idol Producer (TV)
Genre: Ballet AU, M/M, black swan au kind of not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-27
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-05-29 09:37:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15070364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sichenqie/pseuds/daddyanchen, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: zhengting is straight lines, perfect pirouettes, soft words and patience. xukun is ten shots knocked back, dirty black shirts and running too-late. yanchen is kind smiles, well-worn strings and trying to love too many things.





	1. relevé

**Author's Note:**

> based on [this](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/Dgr9lf7VQAARlfN.jpg)................

**introduction**

 

zhengting is straight lines, perfect pirouettes, soft words and patience and waiting in silence because—“patience is a virtue, zhengting.”

zhengting is fixed schedules and monochrome markers, and calendars marked up to the minute and never resting. he is dim lights, and empty theatres, and he loves the smell of the stage before anyone has seen it.

one-two. he points his toes.

three-four. he spins round and round.

five-six. he spins again

seven—“again.”

zhengting is back on his feet before he can fall down a second longer, ankle throbbing when he tries to press against gravity again. but he does it again, again, again, again, again.

“take a rest. that’ll be it for today,” he’s told, piano keys going still.

and there is no relief in rest, only panic in pauses. it’s not over because he did it perfectly, because he was satisfying, because he made good use of his time. it’s over because he failed, because they were tired of watching him fail, because he failed and no one ever wants to watch a failure. no one comes to see a failure, no one applauds for a failure.

and all zhengting has ever wanted is applause.

“b-but—“ he tries to contest, voice meek and shaking and barely anything. but the children playing the little flowers are lining up in front of the stage, one of them is sneering at him, and he has all been forgotten on the floor.

he bites his bottom lip to keep it from trembling. inhales deeply to keep his eyes dry. “hey,” a nice boy offers his hand, “you okay?” zhengting has known yanchen for as far as he can remember, so he smiles a thank you and gratefully takes the hand offered to him. when yanchen turns away, zhengting runs to the locker room. thinking yanchen is handsome, he is so very talented but he pulled a hamstring, so he doesn’t push himself as much as he did. thinking that yanchen looks as happy as zhengting wants to be, as happy as zhengting thinks he looks. thinking, he would take the chance to make yanchen that happy if it were ever given to him. he goes through the motions of changing shoes, changing shirts, changing clothes, changing bandages. wiping sweat, and washing his face and combing his hair back.

a strand tickling his eyebrow, he writes a note in his planner to get a haircut soon.

 

**act ii**

 

his mother tries to feed him too much, and his father never greets him enough anymore. a hello, a passing look, a momentary bow.

zhengting runs a hundred more rounds, and he runs it again and again and again until his mother knocks on the door. too loud, is what it means, too loud against the floorboards, and your father, who has given you everything you’ve ever needed, whom you still choose to disappoint with your endless dreaming, he is trying to sleep.

so, zhengting stops. he hangs his shoes, and clips his nails, and goes through an hour of cleansing and cleaning and scrubbing and moisturizing and drinking tea so he won’t bite his nails. he looks at the way his bones look that day, decides whether or not he deserves a cookie before bed. he rubs white cream over his scars, and lights a candle that smells like something nice.

temperature turned down just right, lights dim, biting on something cotton so he won’t grind his teeth in his sleep, zhengting drifts off somewhere near.

 

**act i / scene ii**

 

xukun knocks back another shot, then another, then another. ziyi bets that he can’t do more than eight, so xukun does ten. ever the overachiever.

ziyi waits outside the bathroom as xukun throws up, and yanchen is washing his hands in the mirror when xukun steps out of the stall. smeared lipstick, dirty black shirt.

they stare at each other for only a moment, yanchen pressing his thumb to the corner of xukun’s mouth and rubbing red across his face to make him more of a mess, before pushing him against the greasy wall and kissing him.

kissing him, and kissing him, and fucking him in the backseat of his car. xukun tumbles out into the parking lot when they’re done.

“let me drive you home!” yanchen calls out, worried.

xukun waves a hand back at him and grins. “tempting,” he laughs mockingly, before disappearing behind the front door again.

 

**act i / scene ii**

 

“hey, zhengting.”

“… oh, hey, yanchen.”

“what are you still doing here?”

zhengting smiles sheepishly. “i… got caught in the rain. i forgot to bring an umbrella.”

yanchen sheds his coat and puts it around zhengting’s shoulders. “come on,” he smiles kindly, pulling out an umbrella from his bag. “i won’t let you get wet, i promise.”

and zhengting, with nothing else to say, he says yes and follows yanchen outside. “if i had my car i would drive you home today,” yanchen says apologetically, shaking his umbrella dry when they reach the bus stop. “sorry about that.”

“oh, it’s okay! thank you. … um, what happened to your car…?”

“i got it cleaned. someone… made a mess in the back.” yanchen smiles, and zhengting thinks about how pretty his lips are. he nods absently.

“you ‘gonna be okay?”

zhengting snaps out of his head and nods in response. he tries to take the coat off of his back, but yanchen stops him.

“it’s fine. give it back tomorrow.” yanchen smiles one last time before running back into the rain and disappearing behind the gray.

and zhengting, completely taken aback by his kindness, and awash in attention, he wraps yanchen’s coat tighter around himself.

 

**act i / scene ii**

 

“we have a new dancer joining us from here forward,” cheng xiao announces to the class delightedly, motioning towards the boy who came late. the boys turn their heads, some nod back, others look on in awe. and zhengting, he doesn’t know why everyone is whispering under their breaths.

“hey, i’m cai xukun,” the boy bows politely, lips upturned into a permanent grin, eyes kind. “you can call me kunkun.”

 

**act i / scene i**

 

“’you can call me kunkun’?” the last one in the locker room, lacing his sneakers up by the teacher’s office, zhengting hears a familiar voice laugh.

then, someone else. then, hands, clothes, more quiet laughter.

“that’s not what you said the other night.”

xukun chuckles, and zhengting can hear yanchen smile.

they kiss, and kiss, and kiss. something falling on the floor, a table moving, something pressing against the wall.

zhengting shuts his eyes so he won’t think about it. opens them again when he starts thinking of xukun and yanchen in the other room. all xukun sitting on the table, yanchen between his legs, kissing him over and over and over. pulling his shirt off, mouth dragging down his body—

zhengting doesn’t notice how long he has held his breath until his lungs run out of oxygen, and he has to gasp and cough into the quiet.

everything stops. there is a pause between seconds,

before zhengting grabs his bag and sprints out.

“who’s there?” xukun asks yanchen. yanchen peeks through the small opening in the door and sees no one, so he closes the door again, and crashes his lips against xukuns laughter.

and zhengting, he runs. out of the building, down the sidewalk, all the way home.

he runs until his ankles throb, all red and purple when he falls into bed.

thinking, yanchen is handsome and he is kind. thinking, i thought he liked me. thinking, xukun is handsome and he is dangerous. thinking, everything feels like a dream.


	2. grand plié

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yumi added me as a co-author so i guess i had to write things :///  
> this is bad btw sorry <3

** act i / scene iii**

****  


“he’s an ugly dancer.” yanchen pulls the laces of his shoes tighter, and zhengting wonders if yanchen is going to get a more focused role this time. “really, the ugliest ballerino i’ve ever seen.”

“really? he looks—“ beautiful, elegant, poised... “experienced.”

yanchen chuckles and zhengting doesn’t know why, but he brushes it off and laces up his own shoes. he needs new ones soon. these are bound to break, the silk frayed and dull.

“he _is_ experienced, but he’s ugly. ugly in a way where smoke clings to your hair. xukun is lipstick stains and smokey bathrooms, seven shots of vodka and a fuck in the backseat. he’s ugly in a way where his ballet and passion are overpowered by the need to escape himself.”

zhengting looks down at his manicured hands wringing together, playing with the ribbons of his shoes. i want to be that ugly, zhengting thinks, wondering what lipstick tastes like, what rebellion tastes like, what freedom tastes like—hot cigarettes against his pristine white teeth and ruining the enamel, burning everclear down his virgin throat, skinned knees and clear laugher on a misty 2am drive to nowhere.

but zhengting is beautiful instead—marbled skin with blue veins, cold and precise, pointed toes and bones that will never heal to be the same, crooked ankles and a spine seen through the thin skin of his back, jutting pelvis bones with the hairline fracture of a nearly career-ending incident. zhengting is beauty wrapped up in a tragic story.

ideal.

his leotard is suddenly too tight despite the fact that it doesn’t quite cling to his body the way it’s supposed to.

 

** act i / scene iii**  


****  


xukun finds zhengting in the dance studio on the floor with his legs apart, pressed against the mirror, a full straddle split bordering on an over split. their dance teacher pushes zhengting’s hips closer to the wall, and xukun is sure he can see zhengting’s balls touch the mirror, can hear zhengting whimper over the sound of their teacher’s heels clacking on the wooden floors as she oversees his flexibility.

even after she leaves, zhengting doesn’t move from his position. a part of xukun gets why zhengting won’t move, but another part is angry about it.

“shit. whoever sleeps with you would be damn lucky,” all nonchalant, all trying his hardest to make a friend, all confused when zhengting shoots him a glare.

zhengting shakes when he grips the balance bar to aid himself in standing up, stumbles toward his bag and reaches for a water bottle.

“how long have you been dancing?” zhengting asks.

“a while. on and off. you?”

“since i was born.”

it should be an accomplishment, to do what you’re destined to do since coming out of the womb, to know your purpose, but zhengting feels empty.

there’s radio silence between the two of them as zhengting wipes away his sweat, frowns as he concentrates on everything he’s done wrong in his routine because he isn’t perfect. he hasn’t perfected his routine, and he can’t afford to mess up. his spins are too slow, his feet move too quickly, he stumbles thrice and his legs wobble. ten hours of practice would do that to him, but he should overcome such a menial restriction.

“you think so hard, dove. you did beautiful.”

zhengting looks up at xukun, frowns hard as he glares, digs through his bag for a bottle of biofeeze. he applies generously to his ankles before he pushes himself off of the wooden floors, shakes his limbs and straightens his legs.

“no,” zhengting says as he looks himself in the mirror, sees ribcage through his leotard. “i did the requirement.”

 

** act ii / scene i**  


****  


zhengting has twelve missed calls from his mother and two from yanchen, but yanchen finds him first.

“you’re crazy,” he says when he finds zhengting in the studio.

“i’m diligent,” zhengting says (read: desperate).

“let me take you for coffee. you need a break,” yanchen says, tugging at zhengting’s wrist.

there’s a dark splotch on yanchen’s neck. zhengting has only seen porn once, remembers a man sinking his teeth into a girl’s neck, sucking the skin as she moans and writhes and whimpers; imagines yanchen moaning and writhing and whimpering underneath xukun (“kunkun”). are they pristine white teeth and grotesquely beautiful galaxies when they bang against tables, walls, locker doors?

“sure,” zhengting finally says, stares too long at yanchen’s mark so that yanchen has to awkwardly pull the collar of his jacket up more.

zhengting thinks, what do weed joints and galaxy-bruised skin taste like?

**Author's Note:**

> i really want to continue this bec i have a plot in mind but its a one shot for now! hope u liked it uwu


End file.
